


Celebration

by mvsic_bxxks_stvdy



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Gen, and i love holland, holland HATES red london
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 16:57:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13931340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mvsic_bxxks_stvdy/pseuds/mvsic_bxxks_stvdy
Summary: From a prompt I got on my tumblr (thank you muffinworry.tumblr.com)"If you still want prompts, a celebration/ceremony in White London?"My response:"if you wanted this to be the fun kind of celebration…i…am sorry (pre-DSOM)"





	Celebration

Holland had always had a passing interest in the nature of human celebration. When he was younger, he had found nothing strange in the way the people of his London enjoyed their holidays. Not with feasts or music, decorations or dancing.

With blood.

On days of celebration, the streets would fill with the people. Their excitement was tangible, they circled like vultures, craning their necks and leering at their prey. The music was their whispers. The restless way the crowds moved was a dance of its own. And after that most important event, blood splattered over pale cobblestones served as the only decoration necessary.

And so it had always been in Holland’s world. He had lives his youth never thinking of this practice as strange or barbaric. It seemed no more barbaric than the rest of his life. The idea that somewhere, a world away, celebrations could be so different…it never even occurred to the young Antari.

That was until, of course, he had first come to the London of Arnes. The place was so full of life, happiness and color that he nearly felt blinded upon his first visit. Here, the people danced in the streets, and sang, and performed magic as if it was something to be displayed and celebrated. For so long Holland had clutched his own budding power close to him, like the valuable it was. Seeing all the citizens of Arnes, with their wide smiles and bright silks, enchanting plumes of petal hued dust into the air…

It made him feel sick to his stomach, in a way the celebratory sacrifice in his London never had.

Their brazen display of the elemental magic showed him exactly how this world was. It was a selfish place pretending to be giving. How could they throw themselves into this useless dance, how could they waste their magic on such trivial things when his own world faded further every day without hope of rescue?

Now, even thinking back on these memories made Holland’s hands itch to curl, where they hung at his sides. He struggled to restrain any show of emotion, forcing his fingers to relax and his brow to smooth. This was not the time to look back on his past. Not here, in front of the crowds of people, who eagerly waited for their kill. Not here, in front of his master, Athos.

On a platform raised above the cobblestones, in a square of his London, they stood. The White King, his cruel eyes dancing with the same excitement of the people. His sister, her chin tipped up and a grim smile curling her thin lips. The dead-eyed guards. Holland, who stood as straight as those armored men. He wished for their luck, for they were not truly here. Though their bodies served the pale rulers, their minds were elsewhere. With steady fingers, Holland lifted his weapon.

The crowds were gathered around their platform, stirring like a swarm of flies on a freshly dead corpse. They jostled each other impatiently. What had started as the music of whispers had risen to the cacophony of jeers and shouts. Holland did not look out at them, instead, he stared over them. Tried to be elsewhere, like those empty-eyed guards. It was no use, it only made the hilt in his hands feel heavier.

The roar of the crowd was growing, yet it was still not loud enough to drown the soft begging of the man before Holland. Try as he might to ignore it, the words filled Holland’s ears, like maggots infesting his every thought. Please. Let me live. I will do anything. I will…

Holland swallowed. His gaze slid slowly to Athos, who was addressing the gathered populus. Words with so much intended meaning, yet they felt to empty to Holland. He wondered if the crowd believed the lies. Of course they do. Didn’t you? A voice in his head said, and Holland closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them again, he found both Astrid and Athos looking at him expectantly. The crowd was shouting now, shoving each other, trying to get the best view. The best vantage point from which to witness the impending carnage. Holland began to raise the blade, and caught something in his peripheral vision.

A flash of red hair. That eye. The twin to his own, only in appearance. That eye had seen none of the horrors his own had witnessed.

Kell was among the crowd.

Holland let out a soft breath as he raised the great, curved blade. Positioned it. The man before him had stopped forming words, his prayers for forgiveness were now nothing but garbled sobs.

Holland looked out over the crowd, their excitement and impatience giving him a feeling almost like power. He was the ruler of their suspense, in this moment. His eyes met Kell’s. Stayed for a moment. Moved on. Whatever the Red Antari was thinking, Holland did not care to guess. What did he think of their celebration? What did it matter to him? Whatever he saw here, he could shed it like that infernal coat of his when he returned to his homeworld. The horrors that haunted Holland’s dreams could not touch Kell. What place did the troubles of his dying world have with the prince of the living one?

Holland stared out into the sea of people, took another breath, and let the blade fall.


End file.
